


show me where it hurts

by sublime_jumbles



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Catholic Guilt, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, One Shot, Stuffing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, binge eating, self-punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I thought you Catholics went hard for denying yourselves pleasures, not eating yourselves sick.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	show me where it hurts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeeandfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandfeathers/gifts).



> works as a fill for, but was not inspired by, this prompt on the dd kink meme: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?thread=2576656#cmt2576656

Matt ends up bleeding on his own side of Hell's Kitchen tonight - only a couple blocks away from his apartment, to add insult to relatively minor injury. He's edging on dizzy, didn't eat enough before going out - Foggy would kill him if he knew, he thinks with a grim smile - and he's not sure which way Claire's place is from here. But he can hear the prickling buzz of the billboard outside his living room from the alley he's crumpled in, and follows it through pinched delivery bays and fire escapes until he's at his own building.

It isn't until he's dialing Claire, phone tucked between his shoulder and jaw, that the shock begins to wear off and he can begin parsing through the pain. There's a gash on his left shoulder, deep enough that he'll probably need stitches. Some gentle scratches on his face, not even painful so much as stinging and warm. Assorted shallow cuts and scrapes where his costume's worn thin or ripped open - he _needs_ body armor, the logical part of his brain knows that, but there's a certain risky pride in fighting without it.

The wound on his shoulder is worst, he decides, and rustles through his depleted first aid kit until he finds a hunk of gauze to press against it. "You don't mind, do you?" he says Claire when asks when he'll be over. "I was closer to my place than yours, and I got dizzy. Couldn't hear your heart."

"Romantic," she says. "I'll be over, but I'm warning you now that I might fall asleep on you afterward."

"Fine by me," he says, smiling and finding a crack in his lips.

"Over in ten," she sighs, and he hears the familiar creak of her own couch in the background as she stands. "Don't bleed out before I get there."

"I won't."

When her line goes dead, he snaps the phone shut and places it on the counter, then gingerly makes his way to his bedroom to peel off his costume. He pulls an undershirt and sweatpants from his bureau drawers and wriggles into them, wincing when he brushes fresh cuts or bruises. Everything he owns is rapidly becoming bloodstained.

He limps back to the couch, a pair of thick woolen socks in hand, and sinks into the cool leather. His stomach growls, ornery, but he presses a hand to it and focuses on the heavy pulse of the pain in his shoulder instead and breathes in time with it, slow and even. He pulls his socks on slowly, moving his ankles and listening for breaks or creaks. Nothing amiss, just a pervasive soreness that sometimes accompanies damp weather.

He tips his head over the back of the couch. He enjoyed being out there too much tonight. He let himself get too invested. His stomach whines again, and he bites down on his lip where it's cracked, forcing up a bubble of blood, salty and hot, the tang of adrenaline floating to the surface. He ignores the emptiness in his belly. He'll eat in the morning, like a regular person.

He's starting to feel hollow now, coming down from the rush of combat, his body beginning to register how much he's taxed it tonight. He could have stepped away from that bastard ten minutes earlier than he did, could have let him go with a broken nose and a warning. But he let himself get caught up in it, let himself start feeling for that little boy, identifying with him, and then - well, and then he couldn't stop.

He picks himself apart for it, waiting for Claire's arrival text. _Stupid, emotional_ , he hears Stick say. _Soft spots are dangerous. You let them see where it hurts, and they won't stop aiming for it._ The guy pulled a knife on him, got it deep enough into his shoulder before he could get it away from him, and the whole time, Matt's mind had been flashing, wrestling with itself. Little boy - old man - pushing the kid so hard, beating him, screaming at him - and Matt, struggling against the knife, hissing when it dug into his skin, feeling that little boy's helplessness, _knowing_ it, letting it boil into rage.

He buried that knife in that old man's back, spat a warning to keep his hands off his grandson, and placed a call to 911 before dragging himself home. Not enough to kill the asshole, but enough to make him think twice next time.

Enough to maybe keep that kid safe.

But even so, Matt can feel the guilt bearing down on him. He isn't supposed to enjoy what he's doing. There should be no pleasure in harm, no pleasure in beating an old man long after he's been incapacitated, long after the fight has stopped being far.

Matt presses too hard against the gauze and winces. _You deserved that_.

His phone buzzes against the couch, and he hauls himself up to let Claire in, his muscles stretching and creaking like rope.

She waits until the door is shut behind her to greet him, and he feels her assessing his injuries. "Not too bad tonight, huh?"

He shakes his head. "Mostly little stuff, except for my shoulder. He got a pretty good slice in."

She pushes his sleeve up, peels back the gauze. "Mm, yeah, he got you good. Get comfortable, this might take me a while."

Matt settles onto the couch, gritting his teeth when she swabs antiseptic over the slash and biting back a hiss when he feels the first pull of the needle. With anyone else - the possible exception being Foggy - he'd swallow his whimpers, slap on his poker face, but he feels safe letting Claire see him vulnerable.

She doesn't acknowledge his whines and sucked-in breaths as she stitches him up. She's dug bullets out of him without a word in the past, as he cursed and yelped and pawed at tears.

His stomach growls; lately, Claire's taken to feeding him when he comes back, lectures on her tongue about running himself down. _You're human_ , she likes to remind him, _as much as you tend to forget that. You need to start taking care of yourself._

Claire makes good pasta. She makes good rice and beans and cheese, and good chicken and rice soup, and good vegetable lasagna. He knows he owes her a lot for taking care of him like this, for feeding him, for doing things he should be able to do himself.

Claire usually feeds him after she patches him up, warms up a plate for him and pushes it into his hands, eat something, for Christ's sake. Everything is mild, filling, easy on his stomach. Against his will, he's gotten used to it. It's always too much food, more than he deserves, enough to keep him from eating the next morning. His stomach growls again.

"You should eat something when I'm done with you," she says, and he sucks his teeth against the pull of the thread.

"I will."

"Not those rice cakes you like, either," she says. "Something with substance. Maybe even vitamins."

"I'll eat," he reassures her, and winces as he feels her tie off a stitch. She swabs antiseptic gel over it again, then sticks a bandage over the wreckage. Her heartbeat remains slow, steady.

"All set," she says, leaning over to kiss his forehead. "Be careful with those, okay? I might not be as gentle if you wake me up again because you popped a stitch doing something dumb."

"How are you defining dumb?"

"Anything that isn't eating or sleeping, at this point," she says, packing up her medical supplies. "Your body needs as much rest as it can get."

"It's not that bad," he objects, moving his shoulder experimentally.

"I mean in general," she says wryly. "My med school student loans would pale in comparison to your sleep debt."

"Like you couldn't say the same," he teases. "When was the last time you got a full night's sleep?"

He hears the snort in the back of her throat. “Before I met you.”

Before he can respond, he hears the round inhale of her yawn, the tiny kitten sound she makes just before her mouth closes. “Go to sleep,” he says gently. “Take my bed, I’ll take the couch.”

“You sure?” she asks. She's tired - her heart is slow, and there’s a pressure around her eyes, not quite a strain but a heaviness.

“I’m sure. Less chance of moving around and opening this up.” He moves his shoulder gingerly and approximates a smile. “Sleep, I’ll be fine.”

"Wake me up if you're not," she says around another yawn. "Don't you try to suffer through it."

"I'll be okay," he assures her, reaching for the blanket folded on top of the couch and pulling it down over himself.

She sighs. "Okay. Don't do anything stupid while I'm out."

He laughs, burrowing into the blanket. "Good night, Claire."

"Night."

He waits for his bedroom door to click shut before tucking himself against the throw pillows and cocooning himself in the blanket. His shoulder throbs dully, and he rotates it a few times, gently, just to be sure that everything is working as it should. Nothing grinds or clicks or creaks, so, satisfied, he settles, focusing on making his breathing slow and even.

His mind begins to get cloudy as he shifts under the blanket, tossing up flotsam and lashing it against the jagged edges of his consciousness. He hears that little boy's whimpers, feels the tightness in his chest, the fear in his breathing. He hears the urgent gush of blood pushing down that old man's back after each labored exhale. His senses are suddenly flooded with Stick's scent, musty and sharp, with hints of grass and blood at the edges, jarring and familiar.

Matt slowly turns himself onto his back, wincing as his shoulder brushes against the back of the couch. His heart turns cold as the realization hits him, then begins beating again with a renewed vigor, pumping a nagging tattoo through his veins: _what if you weren't helping him?_

Matt would be lost without Stick, without guidance, without training. He would have been undone by the intensity of his senses before he even hit puberty, lost in an undertow of screeching traffic and incessant prayer and chatter, the smell of soiled sheets from two beds down and Indian cooking from two blocks away, the restlessness of heartbeats caught in dreams and the frenzy of real, pure fear in alleys across town.

Stick was rough, sure. Matt won't dispute that - he still has scars from exercises Stick put him through, a wrist that creaks from wrestling himself out of impossible holds. But what Stick did was necessary - for Matt's own good. Matt prides himself on his discipline, on his mastery of his abilities, and no matter how complicated ( _how painful and raw and knotted up_ ) his feelings are toward Stick, he knows he would never have achieved any of that prowess without his instruction.

How is this boy going to learn if no one is hard on him?

Matt shifts again. The more he tries to focus on himself, on everything only he can feel, the more the blanket's fibers prickle at his skin. He feels like everything inside him has been scooped out.

 _You did the right thing_ , he tries to tell himself. _He was hurting that boy. You helped him_.

 _You hurt that boy_ , his brain counters. _You yanked his mentor away from him. You're digging his grave for him_.

 _I'm not_ , Matt thinks desperately. _I was trying to help him._

The voice in his head shifts into Stick's. _Even with the progress you made when I trained you, you're still weak when it counts. Think about that - you'd be long dead if I hadn't found you, and you think you're doing this kid a favor by letting him grow up soft?_

They had a system, when Matt was training. Basic punishment and reward, if - and Matt's still iffy on this point, after twenty years of mulling it over - "no punishment" qualifies as a reward. If he performed well, if he made Stick proud or at least less unimpressed, he wouldn't get hit. No backhand to his jaw, _you can do better than that_ , no cuff to the back of his head, _useless, this isn't even the hard stuff_ , no cane against the backs of his knees, _are you trying to disappoint me? you're succeeding_.

Matt has tried to grow around it, but it's seeped into his worldview; if he missteps, he has to compensate somehow. Restriction doesn't work - he lives too simply for it to feel like punishment. He can't bring himself to self-mutilate - Leviticus 19:28, _you shall not make any cuttings in the flesh_. Besides, injury loses its novelty when he's out getting beat up every night. There's no value in hurting himself when there are criminals a dime a dozen willing to do it for him.

But gluttony is a different matter. Matt's sat through enough parochial school and Bible study to have gathered that it's really only a sin if you enjoy it, or if you live a life governed by indulgence. Matt's own instances of indulgence are few, and definitely not enjoyable, and besides, if anything's going to do him in when it comes down to heaven or hell, it's not going to be gluttony.

His stomach whines, pitiful. He knows his body, how fragile it is. He knows how much food it takes to upset his stomach, how much beer, how much liquor. Trying to keep up with Foggy in school was a learning curve that left Matt doubled up in bed or on the bathroom floor on more than one occasion. But he knows his limits now; he knows how to stop just short of making himself sick.

Carefully, quietly, he unfolds himself from the couch and pads to the kitchen. He tries to remember what's in his fridge, but even as he's assessing he's reaching for a box of mac and cheese from the cabinet above the sink, for a bowl. He moves through the steps on autopilot, and counts down the minutes so he can stop the microwave before it beeps, before it wakes Claire.

The scraping hunger in his stomach is beginning to hurt, and while he waits for the pasta to cool he grabs a jar of peanut butter from the cabinet and a spoon, shame burning in his belly. He wolfs it down, large bites that make him feel like a child again, trying to fill himself up on as scant a meal as possible. It's a cruel trick to play on his body, pretending to heed it when it begs. His stomach can't tell a meal from a penalty until it's too late.

When he can't work down another mouthful of peanut butter and he's reasonably sure that the mac and cheese has cooled, he trades his spoon for a fork and stands over the sink, shoveling it into his mouth.

 _You hurt that little boy_. Stick's voice again. Matt swallows hard, takes another bite.

His body begins to protest once he's made it most of the way through the bowl. His stomach is getting tight, more pressure than pain. He gulps down the remaining quarter, scrapes the sides of the bowl, and runs a hand over his midsection, panting a little.

Stick's voice ventures into the heave of Matt's heartbeat. _How's that kid gonna learn?_

Matt takes a deep breath, stifles a burp. His stomach gurgles.

He opens the fridge, pauses to take inventory: thawing chicken breasts, six-pack of beer, a couple of apples that have seen better days but still smell edible, a loaf of bread, butter and organic strawberry preserves, a couple packages of cheddar - one block, one shredded, two different degrees of sharpness - a carton of eggs, the tail end of a jug of milk, and most of last night's pad Thai and coconut rice.

He eats the leftovers cold, barely tasting them. A heaping mouthful of rice snags on its way down, and he swallows hard, once, twice, three times, until the itch of his gag reflex is gone. His stomach twinges unpleasantly, but he keeps everything down, grim relief lapping at him. If he throws up now, he'll have to do it all again.

He can feel his stomach stretching, struggling to accommodate the amount of food he's dumping into it, and by the time the takeout containers are empty, he's close to real nausea. His mind is sluggish and near-silent, and his heartbeat thumps uncomfortably in his stomach.  

He wobbles back to the couch, belly pushing out in front of him, and the movement makes him groan. He lets out a low, rolling belch and winces, his stomach churning.

He spreads his legs and pulls the blanket over him again, wincing against a cramp. He has to get up in two hours - he won’t sleep well, but he's used to that. The upset stomach will be worse to contend with, if the way it's churning now is any indication. But he deserves that discomfort, the stabbing, cramping pains in his belly, for all the pain he’s probably caused that little boy.

\---

The alarm on Claire’s phone goes off at ten to five, and in her first moments awake she thinks she’s at home, tucked beneath her navy Target bedspread. Then she feels around for her phone and ignores the alarm in favor of dragging her fingers over the sheets, and realizes that she’s _definitely_ not at home.

Of course he has silk sheets. Just … of course.

She hits snooze and lets herself wallow in luxury for the next eight minutes, drinking in the coolness of the silk on her skin. Maybe she should come over more often.

When her alarm chimes a second time, she pulls herself upright and stretches, then grabs one of Matt’s hoodies off the floor - she expected his room to be neater somehow, although she supposes he can’t really tell how much of a mess it is - and shrugs into it as she leaves his room.

She intends to check on Matt, zip home, take the fastest shower in recorded history, and grab breakfast on her way to the hospital. She’s done more in less time before.

But everything about the way Matt is arranged on the couch throws a red flag into her vision. He’s technically upright, but sunk low on the couch, which means all those already-taxed muscles will be stiffer and sorer today. His brow is furrowed, so he’s either dreaming fitfully or he’s not sleeping well, and his legs are spread too wide to be comfortable. His eyes flicker open as she approaches, and he blinks a few times, eyes heavy-lidded and aimless, before screwing his face up into a yawn.

“Hey,” she says softly, sinking down beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “How we doing?”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat and tries to straighten up, but there’s a grunt and a wince and a hand to his stomach and he slumps down again. Claire’s own senses - heightened not by radioactive chemicals, but by med school and eight years of nursing - begin to tingle.

“Not so good, huh?” she asks. “Where does it hurt?”

Matt huffs, a sleepy little noise he obviously intends to sound indignant. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you," she says, pulling his hoodie tighter around her. "Come on, help me out. I'll make it better."

"Just sore," he mumbles.

"Yeah, well, sleeping in that position won't help you. Was your shoulder bothering you?"

"No, it's okay." He shifts again, and a wretched-sounding gurgle curls up from under the blanket on his lap. Claire squints at him.

"Are you sure?"

Matt crosses his arms over his stomach, and she notes how ginger the motion is. She keeps her gaze on him, and he turns away and lets out what sounds like a truly miserable hiccup.

"Matt," she says, more firmly. His stomach gurgles again.

"I'm fine."

"Then why do you sound like you swallowed a washing machine? Did you eat something weird?

She scoots closer and tries to move the blanket so she can inspect his stomach, but he pulls away.

“Claire,” he says, in a voice that’s struggling for purchase. “I promise, I’ll be fine. I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to waste your morning taking care of me. Help yourself to breakfast; there’s cereal in the cabinet above the sink, and bread and butter and jam in the fridge. Take a shower, too, if you like.”

It pisses her off a little, to be honest. Does he think she’ll stop noticing how strangely he’s acting if he just deflects for a couple minutes, if he turns on the charm? He’s got to realize she’s made of tougher stuff than that.

“What did you eat?” she asks, getting closer to him. Matt brings a fist to his mouth, stifles a burp or a hiccup, swallows audibly.

She moves slowly until she’s straddling his thighs, bringing her hands to his stomach through the blanket, and although Matt squirms and flinches when she makes contact, he lets her.

“Oh,” she says softly.

His stomach is hard and bloated, pushing out over the waistband of his sweats. She can feel the heat of his skin through the blanket, and he moans softly when she applies a little pressure with her fingers. When he doesn’t protest, she pulls the blanket off him and gently pushes his shirt above the swell of his stomach. His skin is hot and pink, soft unhappy sounds rising from beneath it.

“What happened?” she asks, and he sighs and shifts, stifling another burp.

“The adrenaline,” he says. “From being out there … it makes it hard to stick with limits. It’s hard to tell how much.”

She gives him a long look. “If I didn’t know you were such a glutton for punishment,” she says, “I might believe that.”

He doesn’t look toward her, but the effect is somewhat dampened by the undignified hiccup that bursts out of him. He turns pink.

“And besides,” she says, “I don’t believe that you, with your senses, could make yourself this uncomfortable without realizing it.” She reaches forward to stroke his hair, and he lets his head hang beneath her palm. “You can tell me. What happened?”

He’s silent. She gives his hair a final tousle and brings her hand back to his belly, and rubs in large circles.

“It’s okay,” she goes on. “A lot of people cope this way. I’m not going to lecture you about it, but I’m not just going to leave you here to suffer, either.”

She watches this strike a chord in Matt. His eyebrows pinch together and his mouth tightens, and it’s a moment before he grinds out, “No, no - I don’t need - I’m supposed to suffer, that’s the point.”

She drops her hands. “What?”

He takes a deep breath, winces. “I … I made a mistake earlier, when I was out tonight. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

She squints. “So you decided you needed to be punished?”

“I was wrong,” he says stubbornly, tilting his head over the back of the couch. “I hurt someone instead of helping them. I deserve it."

“Matt,” she says. “You are out there every night helping people. You are full of stitches. You are a _walking bruise_. What makes you think you need to hurt yourself on top of all that? You’re doing the right thing. Or you’re doing the best approximation of it that you can.”

“That’s very reassuring,” he says to the ceiling.

She digs her thumbs into the space below his navel and he groans. His stomach lets out another sick-sounding gurgle. “You don’t need to punish yourself. And not like this, for God’s sake. Why _this_? I thought you Catholics went hard for denying yourselves pleasures, not eating yourselves sick.”

“It hurts,” he says simply. “It’s not something I can fix.”

“Well,” she says, “you’re lucky you have me.”

“That’s not” - he pauses to hiccup as she presses her thumbs in again - “necessary, Claire, really. Take a shower, go to work. I’ll be fine.”

“I will,” she says. “But we’re gonna get you feeling a little better first. You wanna tell me what happened?”

“It’s okay if you don’t,” she adds when he’s silent. “But talking about it might be more effective than wallowing in it.”

“I don’t wallow,” he objects, and she makes a noise equivalent to an audible eye roll.

“Whatever you say. Want to tell me how much you’ve got in here, at least?”

He closes his eyes and groans again. “A box of mac and cheese. The whole thing. Usually I only eat half. Too heavy.”

She makes a noise of disbelief. “You got this fucked up on a box of mac and cheese?”

Matt huffs. “No. Peanut butter. Pad Thai and rice too. Too much of everything.” He exhales. “But I need to -”

She goes back to making circles on his belly, and he pauses to give a sigh of what sounds suspiciously like relief. “What do you need to do?” she prompts.

“I need to feel it,” Matt finishes, but as her hands keep moving, he sounds a little less convinced.

“Isn’t gluttony a sin?” she asks. “How does that work?”

“It’s a sin if you enjoy it,” he says. “I don’t enjoy it. That’s the point.”

“I don’t know if that would stand up in court,” she says, slowing the circles to see if it helps. He hums and pushes his stomach toward her as much as he can manage, and she smiles a little.

“Whatever you think you did wrong,” she says softly, “you’re a good person. If you made a mistake, you didn’t do it out of ill will. You didn’t deliberately make that mistake. You -”

“A little boy,” says Matt, and Claire stops.

“What?”

“His grandfather,” he goes on, and Claire relaxes a tiny bit. “Abusing him, hitting him, screaming at him - he made this boy miserable, Claire. I went after his grandfather. Put a knife in his back. He’s alive, but - that little boy.”

“And how was that wrong?” she asks, tracing light patterns on his skin.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “When I was - my - my teacher, when I was young. He was rough on me. He worked me to the bone. But he helped me control my senses. He helped me master them. I would be completely helpless without him.” A deep breath, then, “What if I made that boy completely helpless?”

Suddenly, Matt’s philosophy of _self-flagellate first, rationalize later_ makes a lot more sense.

“Does that boy have super senses that need to be controlled?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then I would say you did him a favor, getting his grandfather off his back. Nobody deserves to live like that.”

“Do you think so?” Matt asks the ceiling, and his voice is full of desperation, hope.

She starts rubbing in circles again. “I do.”

She feels Matt loosen under her hands. “I don’t think anyone deserves to live like this, either,” she adds.

“Like what?”

She pokes his stomach, and he whimpers. “Like this. Punishing yourself because you think you made a mistake."

"It's fair," says Matt softly. "Hurt someone else, make myself hurt too."

"No offense," says Claire, "but it's backwards. Hurt someone else, you do your best to make it right. Cramming down a thousand calories in one sitting doesn't make anything right."

She applies some pressure, and Matt belches, turning bright red.

"You'll feel better if you get all the air out," she says. "I promise."

He groans.

“Do you have any tea around?” she asks, focusing her hands on the lower curve of his belly. “Ginger, peppermint…?”

“Peppermint,” he says around a hiccup. “Cabinet above the sink, top shelf.”

“Okay. Let’s get some of that into you, hmm?”

Matt swallows hard. “If I put anything else in my stomach I might throw up.”

“The tea will help the nausea,” she assures him. “Peppermint’s good for indigestion. Do you have a heating pad or a hot water bottle or something?”

He shakes his head. “Too hot for my skin.”

“Right. Okay, tea then. Keep rubbing while I’m making it, you’ll feel better.”

She finds the tea, then opens cabinets looking for mugs until Matt hiccups and says, “The one near the fridge.” She pours water, sticks it in the microwave, and eyes the dishes in the sink, the empty plastic takeout containers on the counter.

She keeps an eye on him from the kitchen island as the tea heats up. It feels a little less strange staring at him when he’s facing away from her, even if he can’t see her either way. She watches his shoulders move as he works his hands into his belly, and smiles a little when she hears him burp and then sigh.

“Okay over there?” she asks.

There’s an intake of breath like maybe he pressed too hard, and the burp that follows turns into a groan. “Okay,” he says. “Still feels really tight.”

The microwave beeps, and Claire takes out the steaming mug and brings it to him, reassuming her perch on his lap. “Are you going to fight me on this again, or are you going to let me help you this time?”

It takes Matt a moment to answer, and she can tell he’s rolling it around in his head, trying to decide if it’s worth the fight.

“Let you help,” he says finally, cradling his stomach.

“Okay,” she says, placing the tea on his coffee table. “We’ll let that cool, and I’m going to keep rubbing your belly, okay?”

He nods, and she feels his body go slack as soon as her hands are on him again. He exhales, closing his eyes, and she kneads at his stomach until he’s making sounds of relief rather than pain.

“Better?” she asks, handing him the mug and sliding off his lap to sit next to him. He settles against her, laying his head on her shoulder, and his free hand finds hers.

“Getting there,” he says. “It’ll hurt all day, probably. But the nausea is receding a little.”

“Sip that,” she says, indicating the tea, “and that should get rid of it. Maybe call in sick today, sleep it off. Your body needs to process all those carbs.”

“I can’t do that,” he says. “It’s dishonest - I’m fine. I’ll be fine by the time I have to go in.”

She cranes her neck to check the microwave clock. “In what, a couple hours? Good luck zipping your pants. The way you bloat it might take you a couple days.”

He frowns, palming his stomach. “Is it that bad?”

She rubs her thumb against the underside of his belly. “It’s pretty big.”

His frown deepens. “Not looking my best, hmm?”

She laughs and kisses his cheek. “Believe me, I’ve seen you on death’s doorstep and this is far preferable.”  

He yawns, and his face screws up like a puppy’s. “Take the day off,” she says gently. “Work from home, or something. Let your body rest.”

He takes a sip of his tea and winces as it goes down. “You make it sound very tempting,” he says, groping for the blanket with his other hand. “No chance you’d like to stay, is there?”

She covers his hand with hers and squeezes, and arranges the blanket over him. “I can’t stay,” she says, taking his face in her hands and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “But I’ll come right back.”

**Author's Note:**

> originated in chats with coffeeandfeathers, whose work you should DEFINITELY check out.


End file.
